Bukhara: In His Mouth, A Test of Wills
by ShinigamiForever
Summary: For Arslan, by M. J. Engh. A poem more for Hunt than it is for Arslan. Rather lengthy. It was Bukhara, then,/that took your hand and guided you to where you found, instead of a tiger,/the want to continue the slow dance he had started for you to finish.


Bukhara: In His Mouth, A Test of Wills  
  
Catullus wrote of love and hate.  
Not so much the dichotemy, more  
the stirrings of what dooms you. Desire, perhaps,  
for what you do not believe in wanting to not want.  
Odi et amo, there is much truth in his face, and he lies,  
but he lies truthfully, so that you-  
you, of the stolen boyhoods on a school theatre-  
you love so much of not what you should love but  
of the bicycle you forgot to drive in your maneuvering.  
  
(Your Turkmenian general,  
did he love you, did he love you  
Your Turkmenian general,  
did he love you despite your truth?)  
  
His Argus-eyed attendants and soldiers  
watch behind a brothel gate  
on nights when he is drunk on too little alcohol and too much lust  
and-  
"Someday, Hunt, you will be able to say, 'Arslan is my friend.' And you will be proud." Nescio-  
But you,  
you do not want him as a friend  
Friends can be lost, but he as a   
loverenemymastergod,  
he could always be somewhere  
prowling in your body,  
the more you love, the more you feel, deep in you,  
the tiger with his dark soulful eyes.  
(You? Ah, maybe I) "--never will!"  
  
(Your Turkmenian general,  
did you love him, did you love him  
Your Turkmenian general,  
did you love him for his lies?)  
  
The summit of his mountain was climbed  
when he was so young, so very young, like he is young/old now.  
Alexander, so are you Hephaestion? to follow him, ah!  
Except Hephaestion was "also Alexander", and you suffer the wreaths of jealousy instead,  
like a concubine,  
et excrucior.  
At night, lying awake, never again under the Bukharan sun,  
wrapped in his arms and sweat.  
You were never his lover, his equal, you were  
his  
friendsonshadowserventteacherstudent.  
Why could you have not loved him  
for that?  
"Later, he may hate me."  
"I wish you could have been with us all the time."  
I wish. Wish. Could. Been. All. Time.  
  
You.  
  
(Your Turkmenian general,  
did he love you, did he love you  
Your Turkmenian general,  
did he love you in his mind?)  
  
Rusudan, in her shadow  
you try to remake yourself to fill in for her loss,  
but you have not the mother's breast and wob,  
and you did not mother/father his child.  
His child that runs free,  
like a brother, almost a brother,  
while you are still trapped in the pages of books open on tables--  
"Someday, you may want to read"  
"For Arslan"  
"You dirty little fool, you don't know how!"  
  
In his own language, grasping for a shore of words that never came.  
Instead, you find yourself outnumbered by him.  
A story behind a knife, once given, once trhown  
"...interesting story-- very romantic"  
But romance is dead  
and death is life and you are dying  
because he is alive and you are with him while  
she is not. Rusudan. A name. Empty syllables.  
And yet she taught you love.  
Yet, yet, she taught you what it was like, to love a lover of the world.  
For she had Arslan, and Arslan loved her  
and they were both complete apart and together,  
while you are complete only when you are with him.  
He traveled miles and hours to get to her, but  
would he do that for you. Would he do that for you?  
  
(Your Turkmenian general,  
did you love him, did you love him  
Your Turkmenian general,  
did you love him with your soul?)  
  
Bukhara was his capital.  
It was his home, and that is why you crave it, because it was his  
and it was not yours.  
It was Bukhara, then,  
that took your hand and guided you to where you found, instead of a tiger,  
the want to continue the slow dance he had started for you to finish.  
"First the rape, then the seduction."  
And seduction, it was slow.  
If he was your net to follow, you were the one to break before hitting.  
That was him.  
You wait with him for his child, the child he raised  
with the name-of-graves Rusudan.  
You wait with him. He waits, and you are there.  
Innocence. So easily shattered by his one word,  
"Come, Hunt"  
And you are gone to wait with him. That easily.  
Glass is broken for his voice, and your voice falters. One command. He does not require an answer.  
  
Come, Hunt.   
  
(Your Turkmenian general,  
did he love you, did he love you  
Your Turkmenian general,  
did he love you in the end?)  
  
Bukhara, you cry. Bukhara. Home to where it was never home.  
Bukhara. The simple word.  
A phrase.  
A sentence.  
Bukhara. In a few moments of peace, at night, the crickets chirp (are they cicadas? summer and autumn)  
your mouth opens to pant into the darkness,  
Bukhara.  
And he whispers on your skin for silence, for he is not a gentle lover nor is he harsh,  
but you still you pant,  
Bukhara.  
Bukhara.  
Bukhara.   
  
"I'm going. Maybe I'll be back."  
"Will tomorrow come? Who knows?"  
"And if I say no, I suppose you'll consider that I said yes?"  
"He did not accept."   
"Okay. Okay. Okay."  
"You give me pleasure, Hunt."  
"A condition of strain."  
"I am not asking you to choose."  
  
Your Turkmenian general. Who loved you. In the end.  
  
When we go back to Bukhara, "Remember..." 


End file.
